Torn From the Nest
by Neocolai
Summary: Peter has a no good horrible really bad day. Good thing Magneto's looking for him. (16th in the Protection Series)


**I've seen several oneshots of this kind already, but the scenario seemed crucial for the development of the "House of M". Any material that seems related to other authors' stories is purely coincidental.**

 **Disclaimer:** **Neocolai does not own X-Men or anything related to the franchise.**

 **Warnings for extreme angst and "not exactly kid-safe" material. No inappropriate implications/foul language, unless you're using goggles. (This fic should be clean.)**

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

* * *

Some days are kinda lonely without Wanda around. She used to boss him around all the time, ("Don't run outside, Peter – Mom says no powers." "Stop talking so fast, you sound like a broken Walkman." "Can't you keep an eye on Lorna for five minutes? I have homework! Not all of us can memorize the _dictionary_ in one sitting."), but she was still his twin, and twins did stuff together. Like battling for the last ice cream cone (she used magic and he was fast, so they were pretty evenly matched), or complaining about the television's bad channels, or trying on weird hats, or playing superheroes on the jungle gym, or slouching on the couch in ugly Christmas sweaters.

Wanda used to glitch his Walkman to replay the last five seconds of his least favorite song. He talked with his mouth full just to gross out her friends. She made the cops think they had the wrong house, and he tormented the creep who stalked her home. She tied his shoelaces together, and he knotted thirty ribbons in her hair five minutes before the school bus arrived. She bullied everyone who teased Lorna, and he socked everyone who called either of his sisters a freak.

Wanda packed a suitcase and left for college without saying goodbye. He was the one who freed Magneto and scared her away.

For being the fastest person on earth, he's spent a lot of his life chasing down empty dreams.

 _All I want is for Mom and Dad to get together and Wanda to come home and Lorna to be a superhero instead of a popstar,_ Peter thinks nostalgically. _And a deep fried twinkie. Those things exist? Why didn't Scott tell me when I first came to school?_

Twinkies. Coated in sweet and salty batter. Deep fried. With extra syrup.

He needs, like fifty more.

"You know, most people get sick after three of these," the vendor says boredly as he passes over another stick of golden heaven. "Bad college food?"

"Mm." Peter shakes his head, too muddled with sugar to reply. Creamy filling and hot syrup dribbling down his throat. If this is heaven it sure beats playing harps.

"You're the Maximoff kid, aren't ya?" The vendor yawns.

Pausing midchew, Peter glances up dubiously. "S'it matter?"

They can't pin anything on his mom. He hasn't stolen anything in the last three months. (Except the fish tank. And one of the school soccer balls. And a whole plate of brownies. And he needed a new pair of headphones.) (Dad got really mad about the last one, so he technically paid for it - just a little belatedly, that's all.)

The vendor shrugs. "Nah, I was just in high school in the same year. Lot of good it did me – selling deep fried junk food for a living – but I remember the track records. Name's Darren, by the way. You broke, what – six world records before they banned mutants from competing?"

"Eight," Peter rectifies, licking his fingers.

"I didn't bother competing that year," Darren said blandly. "Everyone figured you'd wipe out the sophomore rookies. I guess it's a shame they pulled you out, but maybe it was fairer to the competition."

"Heh. Judges can't stand real talent." Those were good times. Track was the only reason he'd put up with school, and he'd tried _really_ _really hard_ to run slowly.

Apparently sports are like the games at the fair, though – losing is a requirement for continued participation.

Yawning, Darren retreats to the back. Before Quicksilver can skitter to the next stand the vendor returns with another deep-fried twinkie. "Here, take another – it's on me." He smiles cheerlessly. "It's not like anyone eats this garbage. Everyone wants to be healthy – respect the planet. It's codswallop if you ask me. Bad for my job. You've probably made sixty percent of my business all day."

"Um… thanks," Peter says, wondering if he's supposed to pay for it anyways and why Mystique has to discombobulate everything with the words 'polite etiquette'.

Whatever. He's devouring this thing.

"Sure." Darren leans back and taps his fingers on the counter, then picks his nose in a way that totally makes the last twinkie feel gross in Peter's stomach.

Actually, he does feel kinda sick.

Wincing, Peter eyes the remaining quarter of the twinkie and lets it fall to his side. He rubs his stomach, reflecting too late that sugar and oil in excessive quantities might not be favorable even for a speedy metabolism.

His vision wavers.

Come to think of it, that last twinkie had tasted a little off.

Confused, Peter swings his eyes to Darren. He sucks in a breath when they rove to the side again. Eyes not cooperating. Bad sign. Legs dragging and not moving fast like they're supposed to – make that tripping over his own feet. Definitely in trouble.

"You okay?" Darren calls, sounding absurdly _not concerned_ when Peter stumbles against his trailer. "I'll call someone to help you."

"Proff… Proffess…." Peter mumbles. Okay, tongue not working. Thoughts moving slower. Wanda… Wanda wants him to talk slow. Why is he thinking about Wanda?

He needs to think at the professor. That's important.

He's going to be sick.

"Hey, this is Darren Shawson, I was told to call about anything unusual. …. Yeah, I've got a kid here, looks pretty sick. …. Just keep him calm until someone comes for him, got it. Ten minutes; I can do that. Sure. Goodbye, sir."

He tries to say _Professor_ and it comes out "Da…." and then there are hands under his arms, hoisting him upright, and then the twinky burns in his throat and it tastes really gross coming back up, must've looked disgusting too because somebody else is cussing behind him, and then he falls out of the sunlight into four walls that reek of grease and sugar and he curls into himself and wants to die just to get away from the churning 'cause it's too hot and a crinkle of curtains takes away the last of the sunlight and he really, really wants his dad but he can't remember how to ask for him it's something important but he can't think… not fast enough… where's Wanda when his mind isn't working properly….

The roaring in his ears feels so much blacker, and he wonders if this is dying and if he shuts his eyes maybe he'll never wake up, and suddenly he's terrified.

Maybe hell is real and he's thought about it too late.

"Mom…." His voice cracks mid-whisper. For an instant he thinks he sees Wanda's bright red hair.

Or maybe the flash of an officer's uniform is actually flames.

* * *

He wakes up feeling like he's been suffocated with a pillow. Throat dry, mouth tasting like something died in it, feet hanging like it's a falling dream and he hasn't hit the ground yet.

Bright light in his face.

"Mark the time. O'three-hundred hours and sixteen."

 _OhsnapI'mdead Dad'sgonnakillmethistime!_

It isn't a falling dream. He's freaking suspended.

Groaning, he turns his head to the side to shut out the glare. _(Why the bright lights what is it like some freaking interrogation technique cause it hurts turn it off!)_

The boxed-in walls are dark, like a lake that's too slow to keep up with his reflection. _Okay, glass panels. Probably some goons hiding behind them._ No tasing collar, though. _Those idiots won't know what hit'em._

Smirking, Peter cranes his neck (ouch, that kink is not going to go away), shoots the glass a pitying smirk, and springs.

The glass is supposed to shatter. He's _supposed_ to have his goggles and Walkman back in the same amount of time it takes anyone to hear the breakage.

His shoulder jars and he falls back, quivering with unspent energy, wrists and ankles already starting to burn.

 _What the – ouch – freakin' – get it off me!_

Growling, he finally observes the bindings spreading him eagled in the small cell. Elastic ropes move with his left arm as he tests the flexibility. Gritting his teeth, he shoots forward again.

The bungees hum almost _gleefully_ as they yank him back.

"You're kidding me!" Peter shouts. He kicks out at the glass and wrenches his ankle. Swings his arm and pulls a muscle. "Get! Me! Out!"

"You can stop struggling."

He freezes as the electronic voice pings overhead.

"This cell was designed specifically for your… talents."

The creep sounds familiar.

"You'll only injure yourself if you resist. Cooperate, and the procedure will be less uncomfortable."

He says something that Mom would have poured dishsoap down his throat for, and it feels awesome. He can almost hear the creep shrug.

"Suit yourself."

The front panel opens and he finally recognizes the voice.

"Hey, aren't you that Stryker guy?"

The man in uniform steps forward and Peter swallows. This isn't going to be fun. At all. Gathering himself, he aims for freedom one more time.

The thrumming bungee cords echoe his panic.

He tries to call for the professor. He concentrates and focuses until his brain hurts and the light feels like torture more than the eons of time it takes for each of Stryker's footsteps to come nearer.

Maybe it isn't a surprise that he doesn't get a reply.

People are always too slow to keep track of Peter Maximoff.

 _Man, this is gonna be the worst hour of my life,_ Peter thinks as he grips the cords in sweaty fingers.

He can hold out for a little while, no biggie. Two days max, and Dad will find him and tear this place apart

Turns out five minutes feels a like a really long time.

* * *

Mom was upset when she found out that Magneto escaped. Course she was. She started throwing stuff into suitcases and telling him to keep Lorna calm, calculating plane tickets to Switzerland, and arguing with Wanda about why she had to _listen_ for once and do as she was told. (And Peter thought that was _his_ issue.)

He stopped her in the middle of the first-aid repack and told her quietly, "Mom, I let him out."

A packet of flowery Band-Aids slipped from her fingers. He spoke fast after that, blurring some of the details, telling her about the crazy professor and the pentagon and finding out the guy he sprang had killed the president and on and on about how Magneto was still supposed to be the good guy until it all went wrong on television, and when he finally mumbled, "So I don't think he's coming after us" and went silent, Mom stood there with that awful 'not crying but somehow it's worse' expression and he wanted to zip over to the police station and turn himself in for disappointing her.

"I hope you're ready for the consequences," she told him quietly.

And that was it. No more packing. No more lectures. Two days later Wanda stalked out in the middle of a shouting match with Mom, dragging her bright red roller suitcase down the sidewalk, and no matter how fast Peter talked he couldn't make her slow down. Lorna woke up frequently, screaming about mutants chasing her, until Peter wasn't welcome in her room at night anymore. Mom walked around with that scared, ready to run look until she yelled at Peter to stop washing dishes vacuuming mowing the lawn brushing invisible dust from the shelves doing everything to help and fix the horrible thing he'd done and just stay in his room. So he stayed. For two months. Somehow that became ten years. Lorna finished high school and went to college. She didn't need his help. Nobody did.

Until he came to the professor's school and outran an explosion. Beat up the world's most powerful mutant. Saved the world.

He felt pretty good about himself after that.

But it didn't make Wanda come back.

It didn't get Dad together with Mom.

Lorna probably would've called him a freak, if she wasn't the one with green hair.

Sometimes he wonders – in those boring seconds between classes and Dad throwing a baseball – if the world would be better off with more normal people. He's sure caused a hecka lot of trouble by being himself.

Celebrating differences just means the world's pretending it isn't scared to death of abnormal people.

And freaks and mutants always get hurt in the end.

So when the first gloved hand grips his arm and a needle slides under the vein, and he thrashes and vibrates until they have to conk him out, he isn't all that surprised.

He's seen stuff like this on the news. It isn't fair. No one deserves to be treated like a class frog.

But that's what people do to each other.

And everyone keeps saying that mutants are people, too.

* * *

They test him for temperature adaption. There's some sort of thermostat in the glass box and it get so cold that they have to wait an hour for the glass to thaw properly, probably worried it'll shatter, and he's pretty sure his fingers and toes will fall off by the time they force the doors open again.

Turns out he's so fast his blood can sucker punch frostbite. It'd be awesome if it didn't mean he was ravenous five minutes into the North Pole expedition.

And that's another factor on their clipboards. Metabolism.

In between the test where they grill the cell until he actually passes out (apparently he has less heat tolerance thanks to his rocket blood cells and so he dehydrates faster), and the one where they zap him with little electric shocks to test his impulse reactions, they try feeding him. If it were a hamburger or a waffle he'd sit quietly, and he told them so, but it's not, they approach him with a tube and when he wakes up again he can hardly breathe and there's this _thing_ down his nose and he's already gagging on it and whatever's slithering into his stomach feels _awful_.

He hears calculations, all about numbers and long words and different test results, and apparently the big discussion is about how fast this stuff is being absorbed into his body. Apparently there's nothing but slop in the first bag, because he has to go really bad and there's lots of negative marks on the clipboard before they try another one, then a third, then he loses count and somewhere along the line he soils himself and they just get upset because they have to take time to clean everything up again.

They take care of the bathroom problem with another tube.

Rotten, bad, awful, worse-than-the-worst–day-at-school kinda day. He knows it's been close to twenty-four hours because every time they do a test there's a voice in the speakers marking off the time.

He hates it.

They can't stop feeding him because whatever guck they've finally invented is being absorbed too fast and it's not enough and he needs carbs but they don't seem to get it because Darren's right – people are stupid and they're trying too hard to save the planet. So they probably have pure-gut protein dripping into his stomach and that's just gross and nasty and he hopes Magneto drops a stadium on on them all.

Or at least punches them. Like in the face. Hundreds of times.

The professor wouldn't like it if Dad actually _killed_ somebody.

But Dad doesn't come, and when they're finished jolting him with electric prods until he's too burned out to twitch, they take a coffee break and let the doctors take over. They take samples of _everything_. They scrape his tongue and the back of his throat with popsicle sticks (and he spends the most humiliating moments after that trying to decide which popsicle he wants when he gets home or maybe he'll just raid the mansion freezer), and then there's needles sucking out his blood like they're freaking vampires and then someone gives him a shot which makes all the pain go away until there's a needle _digging_ into his _spine_ and he hollers but it doesn't stop anything and the medication is wearing off too fast his stupid metabolism's chomping through it and the doctors are shouting at each other and scribbling on their clipboards and it doesn't stop it doesn't go away he can't stop screaming until they clock him out again and he never thought it could feel so good lose consciousness...

* * *

He hears more, but he's hurting too much and numb too much and his head feels his skull was busted instead of his leg. There's talk of blood pressure tests. Muscle recovery. Skin elasticity. Brain stimulus. Bone density. Lung capacity. Heartrate. Hearing range. Vision. Cellular reproduction. Immune system. Natural antioxidants. He loses track.

He doesn't fight the needles anymore. He can't. His muscles don't retract like they're supposed to. He can't even remember what it feels like to run.

It's been three days and six hours since he first woke up.

He wonders if Darren really called the professor.

He doesn't think so.

Maybe Dad was just a bit right about humans.

But Mom is human, too.

It's all too confusing, so when the next needle jabs his arm he lets himself pass out.

* * *

He tries to focus on flavors. Bubbly soda. Powdered doughnuts. Cheeseburgers. Banana cream pie.

Mom's mac'n cheese.

He can't remember what the last one like anymore, and it ruins his whole day.

* * *

He always thought it was funny when cops came to the house. Now he knows why Mom freaked out the first six or seven times.

* * *

Falling asleep was always torture. He never really slept at night - just sat in front of Pacman until his eyes shut down. Three hours of wacko dreams was usually enough to recharge.

They don't let him fall asleep here. It's another test - to see how long his body can function without necessities.

He wants the professor to wake him up. It's gotta be like a replay of En Sabah Nur. Just another nightmare.

* * *

Sometimes breathing hurts. They fill the cell with gas to see how fast his immunity can fight it off - if it can.

He finally realizes they don't care if their lab rat dies.

He's terrified of what they'll do to his body.

* * *

On day five he stops trying to be resilient and just concentrates on not passing out 'cause he might not wake up again.

He doesn't want to think.

* * *

One of the doctors has dark hair. Peter thinks of Moira and he's scared when his first impulse is to believe she betrayed him.

He doesn't want to hate people.

* * *

He dreams that he's trying to save Tauntaun from the fire but it all slips away before he can get out. They're testing him for lung capacity again – removing the oxygen from his cell until he passes out.

Turns out he can hold his breath for a really long time.

* * *

He's sees Dad. Standing there. He tries to show him the father's day card. Dad just shakes his head with that daft look like he doesn't realize he's really important to someone.

Peter knows he's important to Magneto.

He just wishes Dad would stop taking his sweet old time.

* * *

He lost feeling in his hands and feet yesterday, but it feels like twenty years ago and he wonders if he ages faster or slower than normal people. It seems to be slower, according to the mad scientists. He's going to laugh at their funerals when they all die of old age and he still looks thirty.

* * *

He gets ice cream. Honest-to-goodness ice cream. A whole spoonful of strawberry. He thinks he's in heaven. The doctors tell him that if he cooperates and promises to work with the therapists, they'll take him down from the cords and he can eat a whole pint.

He doesn't get any more.

* * *

He's starting to think the silver jacket is overrated. Everything around him is white or grey. Maybe he should try lime green. It'd probably look fantastic against his hair.

* * *

He misses music.

* * *

He hums a few lines of _Fearless_ and gets creeped out by his own voice. He sings anyways. The scientists jot it down on their clipboards.

* * *

Monopoly doesn't seem so boring anymore.

* * *

He wants Mom's waffles. She made'em fluffy and always put whipped cream on top. They'd sit around the tv and watch cartoons on Saturday mornings even though she had the late shift the night before and Peter didn't listen to Wanda and kept checking the driveway every twelve seconds. Sometimes they were so happy together that he didn't miss not having a dad.

Then he saw kids in the park and life wasn't fair again.

He wants both his parents right now. It's been seven days. He's never been away from his family for so long.

He hasn't seen Wanda for longer.

* * *

He doesn't think there are any veins left for them to dig into, but they keep finding one.

His clothes hang.

* * *

Finally – eight days and some hours he's not sure anymore he wouldn't even know the date if they didn't freakin' say it every time – there's a piercing, tortured squeal of metal outside his glass box and people are screaming for eons before there's something else sifting through the pillows in his head.

 _"Peter! For heaven's sake – answer me!"_

He doesn't think he can feel anything anymore, but his face is wet so that must mean something. He's just aware that he's not feeling cold now, and he wants to shout but he can't, and then it's so awesome when the glass cage rips open and Magneto is standing there without the helmet, looking scared and furious and papa-bear and everything fuzzy all at once and Peter can't even move and now life really isn't fair and he's so tired of hurting and he might be gasping wetly just a little bit.

In a little moment of emotional confusion (it's over so fast he must have passed out) the cords are cut and the nose tube is pulled out in a gush of blood and he's wrapped up tight in sturdy arms and _this is what it's like to have a dad he always knew he was missing out on something_ and Charles is rolling up (is it rolling or wheeling when it comes to a roller chair) and asking questions in his head but he really can't keep track of them, he's too busy trying to figure out if that's Mom punching a nurse which is really weird but no that's her and she looks so mad he thinks he's gonna be grounded for life and suddenly then she's there beside him, pushing his gross hair away and she and Dad are looking at each other like they're finally agreed on something for once and that's all he needs before he decides this is all really cool but he needs to pass out 'cause it's just too overwhelming…

* * *

He thinks they're in a plane. It's all kinda float-y. Dad hasn't let go yet.

He doesn't mind staying put for a while.

* * *

The warmth leaves and he shouts as he's pulled onto a steel frame. Mom's nails are too long he tries to tell her she's jabbing his hand but he's scared and Dad's shouting at him to stay still and that freaks him out he must be in super deep trouble….

* * *

 _"It's all right, Peter. You're safe."_

He's pretty sure he's dreaming up the professor's voice in his head.

* * *

Stryker must've turned blue from all the science data and now he's holding up the nose tube and suddenly Peter's at the window, tripping over his own legs, but they won't work he can't run they're going to shove it down his throat again he's so tired of this it's going to hurt –

And then Mom's there, rubbing his arms, pulling him down until his head is in her lap (even though he's like twenty-seven and this is totally embarrassing), and suddenly the blue Stryker turns into Hank and it isn't quite so scary to see Grover in a lab coat.

Dad is hovering by the bed, looking like he doesn't know how to be a dad.

Mom should give him a few tips. She's good at that stuff ….

* * *

Jean is actually kinda pretty when she's reading by his bed. He might have mumbled something of the kind. She gives him a look like most girls do when they see a mutant with silver hair and bops him over the head with _Ragtime_.

"You'll be fine," she says, and then the curtain billows against the open window and he lets his mind float with it.

* * *

"We thought we were going to lose you." Dad looks scared which is worse than mad, and Peter wonders if he had this same look when Nina … …

He's glad Dad doesn't have to feel that way again.

* * *

He's really glad to be alive, but remembering is awful. He doesn't want another twinkie.

He still remembers the feeling of helplessness – like life was suddenly too short and he'd lost all his chances.

He tries to communicate that to his dad.

"So maybe I want to go to church after this…."

He wishes people would stop touching his forehead every time he says something sensible.

* * *

"I asked her to give the school a try," he overhears when Mom assumes he's sleeping like he's supposed to. (She should know better by now.)

"Have you told Erik?" How does the professor do calm so easily?

"He's got enough trouble with one kid. I'm not ready to give him the news."

 _Wait, I'm trouble for Dad? I mean, sure, I drive Mom hectic and she says I'm enough to make a police officer cry, but that's what kids do to their moms – right?_

All the same, he doesn't want to be a bother. Maybe he should ask if they really want him to stay.

That sounds stupid. Sensible brain starts battling against stupid emotions.

The commotion in his head overwhelms him and he drifts off before either side wins.

* * *

IV's and nose lines are lousy breakfast options. When Mom finally holds out a yogurt cup Peter tries to hug her and grab it at the same time, and winds up head-butting her nose.

"Mom I'm so sorry I didn't mean to –"

"It's… fine… Peter." She's holding her face and looking ready to pass out, and she still does calm as good as the professor. "Just…." Heaving a deep breath, Mom forces a smile and shakes the dizziness out of her eyes. "I'm fine. Eat your yogurt, hon."

She presses a hand to his cheek, and he knows she's too worried to be freaking out over a bruise.

Hugs come first.

He doesn't tell her how much he appreciates that she got him blueberry yogurt instead of strawberry.

* * *

Dad's his coach. Mealtime supervision ("Don't eat so fast, Peter."), therapy ("You can keep it up a little longer."), doctor appointments ("Stop flouting Hank, Peter."), breathing exercises ("It's just a dream, kid. I'm here."), heartrate monitor ("Peter, calm down. Don't make me drag your mother in here."), temperature control ("You want the window open or shut? Make up your mind."), nurse's assistant ("Let them change the bandages, Peter. I'm not going anywhere."), entertainment ("With a mind like yours, there's absolutely nothing dull about a game of chess. Now, white or black?"), scheduling ("Hank said ten minutes. Hand over the Gameboy."), outdoor excursions ("Stop complaining about the wheelchair or I'm calling in Charles."), visiting hours ("Uh-uh. I give you and Kurt five minutes to chat and this entire room is going to be in shambles."), dietary control ("No junk food until you can keep down a solid meal."), bodyguard ("Yeah, I punched him, kid. He's never going to come near you again."), and overall comfy pillow ("Don't get used to this.") makes him the most awesome caretaker and he's almost better than mom – except he can't do hugs and stuff without getting sarcastic about it.

Wait, what's he saying? Mom can totally do sweet and Dadneto would rather punch the bad guys, so… no comparison.

Peter's cool with that.

* * *

Stryker's lab was decimated, he finds out. He's surprised that the professor let Magneto rip the place to shreds, but then he remembers the lab and how panicked and furious Charles sounded in his head, and he realizes it's just the right amount of damage.

One thing's for sure, he doesn't want to make the professor mad.

Ever.

* * *

"So what about Darren?" Peter asks one day when he's tucked into Dad's arm, a little tuckered out from learning how to run again but feeling good about his legs.

"Darren?"

"The twinkie guy." Stupid eyelids are drooping again. He says around a yawn, "We went to school together. I think he tipped Stryker off."

Dad gets tense really fast. It's kinda disappointing – Peter hasn't even drifted off properly before he's leaving.

Maybe he should've told Mom instead.

* * *

"No, nobody was killed." Charles laughs awkwardly at Peter's question. "Although it made an interesting dispute for the general public."

Once again it's mutants versus the world, but Peter has enough of a fanclub that most of the humans are on his side.

It's kind of embarrassing.

At least he gets loads of 'Get Well Soon' junk food out of it. Mom starts disposing of the Girl Scout cookies after the third shipment arrives. He's pretty sure she's hoarding the thin mints.

* * *

Lorna visits while Dad's away. She hasn't dyed her hair since it changed color so she fits right in. Ororo even adopts her as a little sister. (But Peter can't be Storm's brother, even though his hair is a perfect match.)

Lorna brings him a neon orange jacket and two boxes of otter pops.

He has a brilliant family.

* * *

Dad doesn't kill Darren. At least, there's nothing in the memorial papers, and he comes back without smelling like rubble.

Apparently some poor dude is working for the rest of his life in a ho-ho factory, though.

Magneto seems to think this is just punishment. Peter wishes his job could be that awesome.

* * *

Wanda doesn't come.

* * *

He's finally staying awake for six hours at a time when Dad sneaks into the room with something tucked under his arm. Mom shakes her head at him and tells Peter to close his eyes.

He's pretty sure Charles picked the puppy, because it's got one floppy ear and Magneto wouldn't have settled for anything less than perfect.

Peter thinks Tornado and 'Pizza Dog' are going to get along just fine.

* * *

Lorna visits again. This time Dad is there. He keeps on looking at her like she's an asparagus walking into the room until finally Mom drags him outside and they shout at each other for a really, really long time.

When they come back, Dad has a queasy but happy smile and Mom just looks annoyed.

"Peter, we have something to tell you," Mom says quietly.

"You're pregnant," Peter guesses at once. Because duh, they were married once. Couples tend to do that now and again.

Mom looks as scarlet as her blouse and Dad puts a hand over his eyes.

"Peter, you have a little sister," Mom says directly.

"Wait, she's already born or….?" He looks at Dad's contented expression and stutters.

Oh.

Green hair and a tendency to attract shiny objects.

Not awesome.

He wants another sister but this means he has to _share_ , and he's the only one who's allowed to make Dadneto go into papa bear mode.

He really wants to pout. But he can't. He's the _eldest_. So he hugs Tornado and demands, "Okay, but I get first dibs on family time."

* * *

Lorna's even cooler as a real sister. She whups him at chess.

Kurt thinks she's fascinating. Peter throws a twinkie box at his head.

He might be just a little overprotective.

* * *

He teaches Tornado how to run – well, _faster_. Poor Tauntaun can't keep up.

It feels great to race again.

He figures Dad is watching from the window in the professor's study, so he slows up his pace a little.

Just to be sure Pops doesn't worry too much.

* * *

Dad leaves with the professor to get professional replacement parts for the clock, which apparently is difficult to maintain. Peter knows ten shops in New York alone where they could get a more reliable timepiece.

Funny, Dad just growls at him when he offers his advice.

* * *

Wanda finally writes. She has a bunch of poorly worded excuses veiled under mystery that is so _Wanda_ that Peter wants to shred the letter and tuck it into Dad's scrap box at the same time. She says she wants to visit.

Wanda has never promised anything.

* * *

He dreams about Stryker and needles boring into his spine.

He wakes to a lullaby; Dad's voice.

He wonders if he'll ever learn that song, or if it was made specially for Nina.

* * *

It's a good day when he runs to Washington D.C. and back.

Dad throws a fit.

* * *

He walks into the parlor just as Dad says, "We could have more kids, you know."

"Erik, stop."

He chokes on lemon meringue and that keeps him from cheering for Mom. Two maverick sisters are plenty enough.

But if there was another one like Nina, he could take her to the park.

* * *

He's reading Wanda's letter again (it's so worn and faded from being crumpled and retrieved from the trash that he's surprised he can still make out the words but then again he memorized it a long time ago), when Mom freaks him out by tugging it away.

"She's not coming." He doesn't pout. Not this time. He feels like someone kicked him and that's the truth.

Mom sighs and sits down beside him, running a hand through his hair. She used to do that to make him sit still for reading time. It was a fantastic idea for later haircuts.

Still works now.

"I never told you where she went after she graduated."

"Oxford?" Peter snorts.

"Mm, ten years is a long time for college, even for your sister."

The letter suddenly feels like a page full of lies. He looks up and Mom's expression is so guilty that he thinks of Dad shouting in the car and he's not sure why he's retreating to that time but it makes him really nervous all of a sudden.

"Where did she go?" He doesn't sound like a kid. He's just lost in this whole 'girls have secrets' world.

Mom's hand stills, and she lets it fall and pats his shoulder instead. "If it makes you feel better, even Lorna doesn't know. There's all that media baloney about 'secret identities'. Wanda didn't tell me what she was doing, but I found her."

"Found her?" Peter repeats. He isn't breathing hard – not panicking at all. His heart's just beating a little faster.

With a fond and even sadder smile, Mom squeezes him in a one-armed hug and then stands, pulling him to his feet. "Come on. I have a few recordings you need to see."

Turns out "a few recordings" is two boxes of videos. He's really miffed that she didn't tell him before, but when she puts Tornado in his lap and hands him a whole carton of rocky road he forgets what he's mad about. They sit down on the couch together like the old days, only now Wanda and Lorna have moved on and Dad is probably in his study reading the newspaper, so it's just him and Mom like after Lorna went to college.

The first tapes are kinda blurry – they had bad recording systems in the late seventies. He can make out Wanda, though (and Mom's right, the whole 'secret identity' thing is worthless 'cause that's totally Wanda levitating creeps), and for the first time he realizes there's a bigger show out there than the X-Men.

Actually, S.H.I.E.L.D. looks pretty awesome.

But they don't have a Magneto.

One of the S.H.I.E.L.D. dudes trips over an exposed pipe and Peter snorkles around a spoonful of ice cream. Yup. Those idiots don't know what they're doing.

"Wanda should totally join the X-Men," he comments to Mom, or maybe it's a suggestion because she's _mom_ and she can make Peter and Wanda do anything even though they're twenty-seven-year-old mutants and technically she can't force them to behave.

Mom makes a humming, laughing sound and starts stroking his hair again. "I think she'd be proud of you right now."

He feels all warm and satisfied inside, like when Dad handed him his own banana pie after the math competition, and he wonders if Magneto and Wanda would get along. It'd be cool if they did – Peter wouldn't even mind sharing his training time.

Because if Wanda was here, everything would be perfect.


End file.
